Monomania
by Koakuma Tsuri
Summary: 68/100: Death. Something was killing them off one by one. Sephiroth/Genesis. Yaoi. Mild blood/violence. Mystery with a pinch of lemons.


68/100: Death. Sephiroth/Genesis  
Requested by the loveliest Sphinxofthenile, although I did wander off course quite drastically XD  
Here be the last fic for "Tent Week". Stay tuned for our next random object week: October 1-7th.

Disclaimer - Characters are not mine...

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Death  
**Monomania  
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Night.  
A pitch black enveloped half of the planet; making the forest more of a danger than it was under the sun. The Darkness could have concealed anything from a rabbit to an entire platoon of Wutaian warriors. Every rustle of a bush had the SOLDIERs on patrol clutching at the hilts of the swords strapped across their backs. Even those not on direct duty, permitted to rest in their tents until their lookout shifts, lay awake, fearing the silent enemy.

The campfire burned brightly in the centre of the base, throwing stark shadows against the moss-green canvas of the regimented tents. Wood moaned under the intense heat and sparks flew when it cracked. The sounds of burning overcame the low hum of the troops. Normally there would have been laughter, and jokes, and lewd comments that centred around three certain SOLDIERs; games of fantasies and dares, and rowdy chatter that would get them suspended if three certain pairs of ears happened to hear.

However, that night, there was only a low murmur. All the SOLDIERs' interests simultaneously peaked: there was no thought of anything but the topic at hand. Fear hung heavy in the air, but not of a reprimand.

"Second Class Maynard is still ill," one SOLDIER whispered and roughly gestured towards the tent a few rows away – the Medic's tent – as though it wasn't already well known to all his comrades. "And Second Class Anders' condition hasn't improved."

A few mutters broke out between the armoured members of the crowd. "Is it contagious?"

The first SOLDIER shook his head. Although he wasn't certain, and he only knew what he knew because he overheard the medic's conversations from his own tent. And even they had no clue what was the cause. Their only diagnosis – blood loss. But even an untrained fool could reach that conclusion. Each victim had been found still bleeding from cuts to the neck.

Something untoward was happening in the camp and the superior officers were saying nothing about it.

"I heard that the Wuts have this monster-"

"Yeah, you hear everything with the size of those ears-"

"Shut up, Howell! He might be right. Think about it… they've all suffered from _blood loss_, from a gash in the _neck_."

The SOLDIERs stared at the masked speaker. His point stood unspoken but stark in the silence. Could it really be?

Howell's lips twisted, afraid of the conclusion. He reacted to the fear the same way many would have, if only it wasn't the only explanation that made more sense than delirium and forest rabbits out to get their revenge.

"C'mon Fulke," the SOLDIER dismissed with a wave of his hand. "You've been listening to Rhapsodos and his fairytale obsession too much. Vampires? Where would the Wuts get hold of a vampire?" He broke out into a laugh. As nervous as it was, others joined in, until the only one not laughing was the one who suggested it in the first place. Instead of enduring the humiliation, Fulke stood up and went back to his tent for the night.

For a moment, it was like nothing was wrong.

Green eyes stared at the raucous group of men clad in purple, blue and black with a curious disdain. They were as uninteresting as always, spouting insults and shooting each other down, throwing animosity around the campfire like it was cheap whiskey, and then the following morning they would be risking their lives for each other without a second thought.

Dullards. All of them. Their fabrications and rumours were useless.

Sighing, Sephiroth turned back to the hardy metal desk in the centre of the command tent. The ground around it had been trodden to flat, bare dirt – the grass vanished without contemplation within the week they first set up. Charts and maps, the ones that marked the gained and lost land of the monopoly of war lay discarded on another desk, pushed against the wall of the tent, where usually writing equipment and refreshments for the officers were kept.

The main table was a litter of SOLDIER profiles and medical history and the latest reports. All said the same story: a healthy young man from an average family, with his whole life set ahead of him – a fine career in SOLDIER. Different men all suffering from the same cocktail of causes. Exsanguination and a crushed trachea. And those two still grasping onto some hold of life were suffering from a mako poisoning that the usual antihistamines just wasn't clearing up.

_"It's like the mako has mutated. Our drugs just aren't recognising it."_

"_Have the Wutaians developed some sort of biochemical weapon that reacts to average SOLDIER members?"_

_"Possibly. But that would not explain the other symptoms, General."_

Sephiroth glanced at the pile of paper on the table before shuffling them into one stack and sorting them out to the SOLDIERs they related to. The order was simple and one he was used to after years of combat. Profile, death certificate and report.

10 SOLDIERs, a mix of Third and Second Classes, all dead in two weeks. Two more were still dying, lost in a coma that threatened to never dissipate.

With the lack of sense; where in the lack of answers, logic falls through a hole in the floor, Sephiroth could excuse the troops of their foolish murmurs. As long as they fulfilled their duties, they could dream all they want. And blame the mysterious deaths on beasts from Genesis' favourite epics.

Before he could quell it, the man's name brought a frustrated sigh to Sephiroth's breath. His fingers tightened around his phone and he cursed the primitive Wutaian wilderness that did not allow for a conversation-standard signal for a distance over half a mile.

The Scarlet Commander's camp was almost twice that distance; the other side of a strip of the Wutaian resistance's land. And that land would be hard to gain. The rebels were invisible, killing all SOLDIER operatives swiftly, without even being seen.

Ninjas. Sephiroth had heard them be named. They trained in stealth and silence and killed quickly. For the first few days, these black assassins had been held accountable, until the first survivor was found to have extreme mako poisoning. He died the next night from an acute antipathy to the new substance in his blood.

"Genesis," Sephiroth whispered under his breath. The red markings on the map on the side desk only helped to further the sense of alienation from his lover.

Was his camp suffering the same deadly enigma?

Perhaps strangely, there was no doubt in the other's being alive. Genesis was a SOLDIER, a First Class and a Commander. And the liveliest, most dynamic man the general knew. And if Sephiroth had a hard time felling him in a simple spar, then no war could handle him in a flat-out, no house rules battle.

Sephiroth sat down in the chair behind the desk and held his head up in his hands. Streams of silver slipped over his shoulders to obscure his vision. When he let his mind wander, he could hear Genesis' mischievous chuckle – the dark, teasing sound he made when up to no good, but that always promised something fantastic.  
And the scent of him, everything that should be forbidden simply because it was everything that Sephiroth desired. It was so strong at times, almost as if the man himself was standing besides him – not fighting a battle miles away.

Too much stress was taking its toll. More than just the too-close-to-home murders, there was a war going on around him – invisible enemies threatening to cut off their supplies – and he missed Genesis… more than he ever thought he would.

Two months without hearing that voice, or physically smelling his hair, skin and cologne; hearing the boisterous SOLDIERs fantasise over what they'd love to do to the redhead should he ever turn his attention on them, were taking a physical effect on the stoic general. But he never let it show. He needed to remain strong, that beacon of strength that he always had been for his troops. For the sake of ShinRa's victory.

The noise outside suddenly doubled, a racket that was hard to decipher. No one voice could be made out: just a mass of hysterics. Sephiroth raised his head and marched across the tent to entrance.

"General! Sir!" A Third Class ran up to him, out of breath from sheer trepidation. "Another's just been found, Sir."

Sephiroth curtly nodded and paced over to the tent where all of the SOLDIERs had congregated. There was a lamp on inside the tent, and the shadow of a medic leaning over, assessing the immediate scene, was thrown against the wall.

The crowd parted immediately the second they saw the silver haired First approaching. Silence fell.

"Second Class Fulke, General. He's dead," the medic announced when he ventured out of the tent.

"He was with us up until twenty minutes ago!" one of the huddled SOLDIERs called out. "Until he lef-"

"This is your fault, Howell!" A First turned to the SOLDIER in question. He grabbed at the collar of his sweater and shook violently. "You and your big mou-"

"Enough!" Sephiroth ordered. It was low and quiet, but the hostility died immediately.

When did they all lose their minds?

Taking a moment, Sephiroth waited for the next fear-driven outbreak. There was none, only SOLDIER's heads turning in all directions like frightened rabbits. With the victim so freshly departed, whatever it was – man or monster – was surely still within the camp. Maybe if it were any other being, the SOLDIERs would've split up and hunted it down… If only they knew what they were looking for.

Sephiroth made a silent gesture to the medic and followed him into the small tent. It was just like one could expect of a troop. A large green bag was against one wall, a low camp bed against the other. A photo of a young girl was propped up in a plain silver frame next to the pillow. On the pillow was the unmasked head of a SOLDIER. Eyes glazed over and pure blue; his neck exposed at a distorted angle that held the gash in his flesh wide open. Blood was still moist and warm, not even showing signs of coagulating yet.

The only signs of a struggle were the twisted sheets under the body and the vicious bruises around the man's neck. There was only one thing Sephiroth knew that could overpower a Second Class. But he knew nothing that was stealthy enough to kill and escape a camp, when all SOLDIERs patrols were on high alert.

Maybe they were dancing with ghosts.

Genesis would laugh if he heard of _Sephiroth_ thinking such thoughts.

Sephiroth inhaled sharply, not letting himself succumb to the same foolishness as his men. And then it hit him. There was a scent lingering inside that was certainly not one that he ever expect of a SOLDIER's tent. It was far too… refined. Far too spicy…

Far too _Genesis_.

The distance between them really was taking a profound effect. To have his subconscious slip the redhead into a situation like this, as if to soften the blows of his troops dropping like flies under his nose, was impractical as well as obtuse. He turned and entered the open again, where the phantom aroma was whisked away under pure apprehension.

The SOLDIERs still stood, wide-eyed where they did not wear their uniform silver helmets. They were mice, clustered closely together in a nest that offered no sanctuary. It was like a cage. They could not leave without direct orders, and Sephiroth could not move without direction from the President himself. All they could do was stay and wait to see if they would be next.

-

The sense of camaraderie within the ranks of SOLDIERs had never been more prominent. But hostility was also at an all time high. Fistfights were getting increasingly more common, and increasingly harder to break up. Mass hysteria, cooped up like chickens and a complete lack of privacy was driving each male insane. They slept in a large congregation around the campfire, where the light and company brought a security. Sephiroth recalled that Genesis had read to him of the behaviour before.

_Commonly seen in animals: safety in numbers. _

But in the pack, there were those always left on the outside, the vulnerable ones that the predator always picked off first. In the case of the camp – the night patrols.

The first of these – the fourteenth body – had been found two nights after Fulke. The scene was the same: little struggle, only scuffed grass on the ground, and where the SOLDIER had fought against his assailant, the bark of the tree he remained propped against grazed flesh. The throat was cut cleanly, blood darkened from oxidisation and glistening with the morning's dew.

The general found himself torn. The SOLDIERs wanted the patrols to be called off, to complete the fireside pack, every man side by side so they could force the murderer out into the open to be killed before it got another chance to strike. But the patrols were a necessary formality. They were at war, they could not risk Wutaian troops, whether the elusive ninja or soldiers, infiltrating their compound and sabotaging their equipment and weapons.

For the most part, Sephiroth wanted to solve the ordeal as passionately as his subordinates did, but he always had a duty of care, as their general, to protect them from the tangible enemy. So he made what was – in the eyes of the SOLDIERs – the ultimate sacrifice. Blinded by terror, they didn't even take into account the fact that Sephiroth was the most powerful being on the planet, and not even the enigmatic killer could claim him. At least, Sephiroth himself hoped that it couldn't.  
Genesis would surely revive him and then kill him again just for dying in the first place.

The forest was near silent; only cicadas chirped their little beats over the distant hum of the frogs that lived around a pool a hundred yards through a dense, lush thicket. The full moon was high in the sky, shedding a shimmering silver light upon everything that the orange glow of the campfire could not reach. Behind him, his fellow SOLDIERs muttered amongst themselves, a mixture of doubts and morale boosters.

Sephiroth could hear their hearts as one collective beating.

It was the distant corners, furthest from the fire, medic, mess and command tents that were the darkest. And where the first victims had been found, cold in their sleeping bags come morning. Even Sephiroth, he who feared nothing, the revered Silver Tiger, felt unsettled as he walked through the area. It was unfortunate, that as the hotbed of most of the murders – and where the last body had been found that morning – it was where he had to stand alone for longer than he would've desired.

The general found relief in distracting himself, something that Angeal had taught him to do during an incredibly mundane mission in Junon years ago. He thought of his final night in Midgar, the fine meal he had had with his two friends followed by some harmless banter over a few bottles of wine to divert them from the thought that the following morning he would be leading hundreds of men to the slaughter.  
He thought of the final night on the boat over to the Eastern continent; of how Genesis looked, flushed and frustrated, as he gagged himself to stop screaming too loudly. And then the look of distress in blue eyes as they docked in the morning.  
Sephiroth never did get the chance to question that expression, and the wonder still haunted him.

He thought of what they would do the moment they found themselves in their apartment alone. Sephiroth was fully intent on reintroducing the redhead's body in every way possible to himself. Rediscovering every curve and contour; immersing himself fully into that spicy scent that followed Genesis everywhere he was. The perfect compliment to his being, like fire, like cinnamon. A scent so—

Prominent in the air. Sephiroth's eyes flashed open, darting around the area but seeing nothing. He calmed, though still tense where his muscles gripped onto his sword.

Then there was a rustle in the bushes to his left; a quiet laugh barely audible under the shrill song of Masamune striking the sound's location.

The bush was sliced almost cleanly in two, shaking from the shock, but revealing a flash of red leather as it wavered in a sudden, dodging movement.

"Well, that has to be the most vicious greeting I've ever gotten from you," Genesis' voice called out in the darkness, amused and flighty. As soon as Sephiroth lowered the tip of Masamune back to the ground and allowed the sword to disperse, the man stepped out from behind the thick trunk he had been standing behind.

He was pale in the light of the moon, something Sephiroth had rarely seen him in; eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. The first thought that crossed the general's mind was that Genesis not looking too well. Had the redhead been remembering to take the medication Hollander had begged Sephiroth remind him about… before the two had been split apart and sent to different areas?

But then the thought that _this was Genesis_ burst into fruit and Sephiroth immediately lunged for his lover, embracing him deeply.

"Now that's more of a welcome," the redhead laughed. His arms found their way around Sephiroth's waist, tugging him closer as he angled his head to press his lips against the man's neck.

Just as he fantasised, Sephiroth breathed in everything he had missed. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a whisper.

"To see you, obviously. I finally realised how much I need you." Genesis' mouth turned frantic; his hands flattened to slide across Sephiroth's back. "What's a mile to sate a starving thirst?"

Scoffing, Sephiroth pushed Genesis an arm's length away. "Not much at all, now why are you here?"

Genesis' expression darkened and he gripped a tight grasp around the younger's wrist, pulling him through the new cleft in the foliage and shoving him hard against the body of the nearest tree of a suitable size. The depth of the blue of his eyes was something so much more than Sephiroth was used to seeing. More than lust and simple want, it was a thirst – a burning need.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"You might as well be. I won't be with you when you wake."

Sephiroth's lips quirked upwards as Genesis lowered himself down to his knees. The ground must've been uneven and rocky, but all that showed on the redhead's face was a smirk. Hands worked their way over black leather in the same sensuous movement.

Genesis felt real, for the first time in weeks. The mouth that covered over his hardening member through the confines of his uniform was warm; more vivid than his memory. And his hair was moist and silky to the touch; leaves and small twigs matted it as evidence of the journey across the forest from his own camp.

Before Sephiroth had any real chance to make sense of what was going on, scarlet fingers were already releasing his cock from the tight confines of his trousers. He could only numb his gasp as Genesis took him past his lips.

There was something in the intimate touch, perhaps the most intimate one person could be with another, that was so familiar in the security and danger it evoked, that brought the general back to himself. Thoughts of the war, of duty and honour, of the murders and the killer still at large flew straight from his mind as Genesis began to bob his head with a languorous ease.

"Gen." Sephiroth tightened his fingers in cinnamon red hair, and tugged gently. Genesis complied and parted with a lingering open-mouthed kiss to the glistening head. As soon as he was back to standing, Sephiroth found his lover's plush lips firmly against his neck again. They were hot against his flesh, almost burning in urgency.

The redhead's fervour was consuming, incapacitating; as intense as a southern tropical storm so that all Sephiroth could do was what was demanded of him and ride it out. It was what he always had to do if Genesis was in any mood of heightened emotion before arousal sauntered its way back into his being with devastating consequences.

He set his hands on sharply angled hips, able to feel them under all the SOLDIER's armour, and anchored himself back in.

Genesis' left hand snaked its way back down Sephiroth's pale, hard abdomen, tracing down the dips of defined muscle to coil back around the swollen flesh of his cock. Immediately, a rhythm was set: a frantic jerking of a wrist more suited for calligraphy than warfare.

"Gen," Sephiroth breathed out, resting his head back against the uneven bark of the tree that supported him. Maybe it was crawling with bugs, and carpeted in moss, but he didn't care. Genesis was surrounding him in every way he could've desired, rendering all senses thoroughly possessed. "Don't you want-?"

"In due time," the redhead hushed. He repeated it again, lower, almost a whisper in his lover's ear.

Sephiroth barely felt the hand that crept up his arm, and Genesis' lips pulling back; replaced with the cold metal of a carefully sharpened blade. Even the pain ceased to register, only pleasure… the pleasure from the hand, and the lips that resumed their position. The pleasant sensations still lingered even after Genesis withdrew his hand, preferring to use it to tilt Sephiroth's head further to the side to give himself better access to the open wound.

Slit throats…

Whether he was conscious of the action or not, Sephiroth let him continue, groaning from the feeling and pulling him closer. It was like a strange exchange – the cool of his body yielding to Genesis's forceful, pressured kisses, and the debilitating intoxication of the bliss that the redhead returned.

Mako poisoning…

From sounds, let alone the vigour of his mouth, it seemed that the experience was mutual for Genesis. If all of SOLDIER were wines, Sephiroth would be the highest quality vintage; the pride of the cellar. The others were common, without substance, watered down and expendable. A bottle a night was consumed, just to keep the taste quelled. But Sephiroth was one so rich and intense in flavour, only half a glass was needed for whole satisfaction. A dark taste; so overwhelming.

Though the contented haze of his mind, Sephiroth felt his breaths growing heavier, and harder to maintain. Genesis' fingers were tight around his throat, and getting tighter as the scent of death approaching grew stronger.

Crushed trachea…

Green eyes widened a little too late. Too weak to defend himself, in any way, Sephiroth succumbed to his killer just like fourteen other SOLDIERs from his camp.

In a cold sweat, Sephiroth bolted upright. The darkness that surrounded him was hot, humid and heavily scented. A light weight covered his lower body; the smooth touch and whispers as it moved were those of silk bed sheets. As he exhaled, a slim leg casually hooked around his own, and a soft murmur sounded out as Genesis pulled himself closer in his slumber.

Slowly, Sephiroth raised his left hand to his neck, only to find a moistness from sweat and a sticky residue left from lips that were fresh from the wineglass. He could still taste the liquid on his tongue, and smell it on the bed sheets, on Genesis' skin.

He remembered the evening, a pleasant meal with Genesis and Angeal… the extraneous conversations and games of eloquence over fine alcohol, before the darker haired of a trio retired for the night, knowing that the two lovers would need time together before departing for war the following morning.

…They hadn't even left Midgar.

Sephiroth sighed, running the hand on his neck back down to the arm around his waist. He followed the smooth skin to the shoulder, turning onto his side as he did so. Over the tousled mop of fiery hair that had buried itself into his chest, Sephiroth had a clear view of the bedside table Genesis had claimed for his own. And behind the clock that glared red numbers of the early morning, was the small white and blue bottle that the general had never seen his lover without. Except for in his dream.

As he leant over to retrieve the bottle simple to inspect it, Genesis stirred, releasing another mumble before opening his eyes.

"Seph?" he croaked out, voice still a little raw. He stretched in a habitual, feline way of waking before shuffling up to rest his back against the headboard as his lover was.

"What are these?" Sephiroth shook the bottle slightly. From the ring of the pills inside, it sounded near full.

"Mineral supplements," Genesis said simply. "Iron to be precise."

"Iron."

"I'm sure I've told you before that I can't digest iron from food?"

Sephiroth hummed. He vaguely recalled questioning the redhead about some of his additional medication when they first met, and due to the older's petulant reaction to the inquiry, Sephiroth had never mentioned it again.

"So, it's either these," Genesis took the bottle back from Sephiroth and placed it on the table once more. A low chuckle escaped his curved lips. "Or I might develop a sudden penchant for blood."

The silver haired male scoffed slightly, internally relieved as he was torn. What if the dream wasn't just a dream but a premonition? What if—

"It would be interesting though, wouldn't it?" the redhead settled back down to sleep. "I wonder if you'd taste as good as you smell,"

Sephiroth grunted, but followed the movement. And smiled as Genesis nestled back into him. The words that followed were not meant as an insult, no matter how callously they were spoken. It was just one more thing he had learnt about his lover over the years.

"You have no imagination, do you, Moonbeam?"

"None at all."


End file.
